Until now, the Middle East has been a gaping hole in my lengthy travel resume. Political and religious unrest and travel advisories have dissuaded me from seeing the pyramids in Egypt or discovering the ski slopes of Iran. And other travelers have shared my trepidation: Following the 2011 Arab Spring, the region saw an eight percent decline in visitors, according to the U.N. World Tourism Organization. Jordan, surrounded by conflict, but an oasis of calm (safer than even Germany and Britain according to a 2017 World Economic Forum report), saw visits to the famed archaeological site of Petra drop nearly 50 percent.

Now, seven years later, tourism is slowly returning to Jordan—and a new cross-country trekking route is helping to shine a spotlight on the region. Billed as the "Inca Trail of the Middle East," the 400-mile Jordan Trail runs from the Mediterranean-influenced villages of Umm Qais in the north to the coral-rich Red Sea in the south, passing through 52 villages en route, as well as two UNESCO-listed sites. The result of an eight year effort by 40-some volunteers, the route is primed to put the country on the radar of travelers seeking an adventure without the crowds.

Trekkers can tackle the 36-day hike in one go or choose one of eight 50-mile-long sections. I’ve chosen the most established route, a flashpacker-friendly stretch from Dana to the “Rose City” of Petra. Planning a trek is surprisingly easy: The Jordan Trail Association, an NGO formed in 2015 to help maintain and develop the trail, has created a website filled with information on everything from licensed tour operators and hiking companies to what to pack and how fit you should be for different trail sections. Yet unlike the well-marked and trafficked trails of trekking meccas, such as Switzerland and Chile, trails in Jordan can be difficult to navigate alone. A guide is recommended and because adventure tourism is still in its infancy here, there are only a handful of licensed hiking guides in the country.

Until I walked across Jordan, I had never fully grasped the diversity of its landscape.

My guide, Ayman Abd-Alkareem of outfitter Experience Jordan, who helped scout sections of the trail, is one of the best. He meets me, and the seven others in our group, at 7 a.m. at the Larsa Hotel in the capital, Amman. (Overnighting in Jordan’s congested political and business hub is recommended to help acclimate to the time change ahead of the journey.) A three-hour drive along the Desert Highway takes us to Dana, a 15th-century stone village situated precariously on the edge of a large gorge. “At least the start of our trek is downhill,” Ayman jokes.

Until I walked across Jordan, I had never fully grasped the diversity of its landscape. We leave Dana and descend 4,000 feet into the Dana Biosphere Reserve’s central valley, taking in four unique ecosystems. Lonely cypress trees give way to Martian-like rock formations. Then the landscape changes to bone-dry river beds lined with palms and oleander, before, finally, becoming rust-hued desert. Our hiking boots stomp over fossilized urchins that once lived in the Tethys Seas, sending electric blue lizards running for cover.

The accommodations along the trail range from an off-the-grid eco-lodge to camping tents and beit al-sha’ar, Bedouin-style tents stitched from black goat hair and outfitted with beds. Part of the goal of the Jordan Trail is to support local Bedouin communities along the route and help preserve the culture of these nomadic desert dwellers. Every stay provided an intimate glimpse into traditional Bedouin life and thoroughly convinced me that Bedouins must have hospitality embedded in their DNA.

The Dana Biosphere Reserve.

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Feynan Ecolodge, where we stay our first night, has been a pioneer of community-based tourism in Jordan since opening in 2005. The 26-room hotel is surrounded by four Bedouin tribes, a rarity at a time when many Bedouins are abandoning the desert and migrating to cities. All of the employees come from local communities in the Dana Biosphere Reserve and the lodge sources the majority of its services locally. For example, the 300 candles that light the lodge each night are made by women at an onsite candle workshop, and the Arbood bread—a staple dinner accompaniment for Bedouin shepherds—is baked by Um Khalid, a woman who lives up the road.

Feynan’s young in-house guide, Suleiman Al-Hasaseen, was born a few hundred yards from the lodge. He tells me his job at Feynan is the reason he’s happy to remain in the desert. “I never thought people from around the world would be interested in how my family lives,” he says. “I feel a sense of pride sharing our traditions.”

Jordan’s centuries-old coffee making tradition is one that is taken particularly seriously, and Al-Hasaseen introduces us to Abu Mohammed, an elderly Bedouin man with sun-creased skin, who lives a 15-minute walk into the desert and has stayed up late to host us for coffee. Mohammed fills a pot with ground coffee and green cardamom seeds and places it over the fire. When the coffee is ready, he conducts the ritual first tasting and nods approvingly. “The first cup should be hot enough to scare your mustache,” translates Ayman.

Even in the most remote places we are always made to feel at home. On the two nights we decide to camp, four members of the Nawafleh Bedouin family travel ahead of us to set up our tents and prepare meals. Hot sugary mint tea waits for us when we arrive each evening, followed by traditional feasts like mansaf (lamb cooked in a tangy, fermented dried yogurt served over bulgur) and local wines. At Seven Wonders Bedouin Camp, we’re treated to zarb, the Jordanian equivalent of a Polynesian pig roast: Lamb, chicken, rice, onions, and carrots are placed over hot coals then buried underground to cook. The dish is unearthed an hour later and served with chunks of Arbood bread and homemade hummus and salads. Our hosts send us off each morning with heavy lunch sacks and thermoses full of Red Bull-strength tea.

When I hiked in Nepal and Peru, I found myself distracted by loud backpackers and locals aggressively hawking souvenirs. But the solitude of the Jordan Trail allowed me to be in the moment. Other than the occasional goat herder or group of children, we rarely saw other people. On day three, we pass a man named Springtime Christmas (Rabir Eid in Arabic) who is selling souvenirs from a thatched hut at the edge of a cliff. He doesn’t try to peddle us his camel mugs and sun-faded postcards, but instead plays us a song on his rabab, a goatskin violin, then shakes hands with each of us and holds a hand to his heart as we leave.

When we reach Petra on the fourth day I expect my reverie of solitude to be broken. We arrive through the rarely used “back door.” Unlike the tourist-congested main entrance known as the Siq, the back is completely empty. There are no gates or signs, and only a small ticket office. After walking through wilderness and empty desert landscape, I approach our transition to rose-hued World Heritage territory with nervous anticipation. There’s always the fear that that such a monumental site won’t live up to its hype.

Vibrant red, white, and pink-colored cliffs tower above us like a melting sunset as we follow the trail for 15 more minutes. Then suddenly, we round a sharp bend and Ad Deir, or the Monastery, Petra’s largest monument, appears in front of us like a mirage. This unfathomable 147-foot-tall façade chiseled into the mountainside is all the more remarkable when you learn that it dates back to the first century BC. Typically, the Monastery is the last stop for visitors and requires climbing 850 stone stairs from Petra’s main entrance. The path less followed rewards us with a tour bus-free first impression and an easy, downhill route past canyons and sun-baked plains.

Most visitors spend three hours in Petra. We allow ourselves nearly a full day to explore the Nabataean tombs, amphitheaters, and aqueducts. The next day we enter, as most tourists do, through the Siq, a narrow gorge that’s just ten feet wide in some places. The Treasury’s two-story façade with its intricate Greek-inspired columns would still be awe-inspiring amidst selfie-sticks and bus tours, but we find ourselves eerily alone, sharing the moment with a few camels and a single tour group.

Petra is a marvel and the views and scenery you take in when getting here on foot are worth the blisters and sunburn. But it’s the people you meet along the way that make the experience so special. When I say goodbye to Petra, I pass a Bedouin woman in her souvenir stall. I decline her fossilized stones, but as I walk away she offers me tea for my onward journey.